


Damned If I Do

by BourbonSunset_MidnightWhiskey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Sex, Castiel/Dean Winchester in the Men of Letters Bunker, M/M, The Map Room, and the kitchen too, the bunker’s couch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-11 21:58:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16861021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BourbonSunset_MidnightWhiskey/pseuds/BourbonSunset_MidnightWhiskey
Summary: Just a little after-dinner Dean...Inspired by whiskey, nipples, and Misha Collins...as so many good things are.





	Damned If I Do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spandwiches](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spandwiches/gifts), [LanaSerra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LanaSerra/gifts).



It starts in the kitchen of all places. Somewhere between putting the butter back into the fridge and running water over the dishes in the sink. Sam’s long since gone. He’s been keeping vigil at Jack’s bedside since the kid collapsed. Dean’s offered to switch off with him but Sam just gives him this look when he mentions it that makes Dean back off. He’s pretty sure he’s worn that look on his own face plenty of times when Sammy’s been sick or in real trouble.

He’s not really sure what makes Cas follow him into the kitchen. What was offered as “help” really just translates to the angel hovering in the middle of the kitchen while Dean darts around him setting the place to rights after tonight’s dinner. He doesn’t complain though. Doesn’t say a word. Just moves around Cas as smooth as silk over polished glass.

He’s never really minded having the angel in his space. Especially tonight. Tonight he feels like a tether. Keeping Dean from being carried off on currents of worry that’ll get him nowhere. He’s grateful for it. He couldn’t tell you who moved first but he registers the exact moment he comes to a full stop. Cas’ hands holding his hips, his own on the angel’s chest.

For a moment he just stares at them where they lie. Warm, solid flesh under his fingertips. For all that Cas is a celestial Wave of Intent, the heartbeat and heat that Dean can feel under the tingling in his palms is all man. He knows it’s him that pushes Cas back until they hit a wall, using the same hands he hasn’t lifted his gaze from yet. He knows it’s him who leans in. Who captures the warm, firm lips just slightly below his own.

Kissing Cas is like-it’s like nothing Dean’s ever felt before. And no matter how many times they’ve done this-how many times they **WILL**  do this-he’ll never quite get used to it. Because Cas kisses like a sports car that’s contented itself to keep pace with a boxcar taking a Sunday stroll. All that power with no desire to make use of it. Like when that Harry Potter kid looked into the magic mirror and the stone just came to him because he didn’t actually wanna use it. And yes, Dean reads, fuck you very much.

But for all his focus- _tilt your head this way, Dean. Deepen the kiss here, Dean_ -Dean can’t tell you who started it. Or who moved them from the kitchen to the map room. But he **can**  tell you that it doesn’t fucking matter. Because at the moment, he’s sitting on the edge of the table with Cas wedged up between his legs like he belongs there, like it’s the entire fucking **reason** for the bow in Dean’s legs.

And he can tell that when he whips his shirts-all of them at once-over his head and arches his back _just so,_ so that Cas’ hot, sucking mouth bumps down his chest to his nipples- **oh,** he can tell you that this is nothing like heaven. Because this; this is infinitely better. He would know. He’s been to heaven a couple of times. And those winged douchebags (present company not withstanding... _obviously_ ) can keep their heaven if he gets this for the rest of his eternity.

Because the way he’s spread out across the table now, his back covering the lower 48 and part of Canada too, with Cas moving lower to map out his own pattern across the freckles sprinkled down Dean’s stomach; there’s nothing else like this. And there never will be. And when he comes down Cas’ throat, his fingers scrambling for purchase somewhere over Russia, he’s damn well sure this is the closest to Paradise he’ll ever be.

So it’s absolutely intentional when he hops off the table, still panting slightly and lightheaded, and drags Cas over to the couch by his tie. It’s completely according to plan the way he pushes and pulls at Cas’ clothes until his shirt lies unbuttoned across his chest and his pants are pooled somewhere around his knees. (And fuck if Dean has the patience to get him any more naked than that because he _wants,_ in that way where he wants **right now**.) And perhaps while he’s at it ...he should mention that it’s completely on purpose the way Dean seats himself on Cas, taking him to the hilt in one smooth move,; knuckles nearly white where his fingers are holding tight to the smooth, squishy material of the nondescript yet beloved brown couch. Because Dean can’t think of a way he’d rather be damned than riding an actual angel right into ecstasy.


End file.
